


restraint

by touchstarved



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Kidnapping, Reader-Insert, Romance, this idea is half-baked at BEST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:48:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22026421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchstarved/pseuds/touchstarved
Summary: Discipline had never been one of Aziraphale’s strong suits. And once he’d severed all contact with Heaven? All bets were off.
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens)/Reader, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)/Reader, Crowley (Good Omens)/Reader
Comments: 33
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

Discipline had never been one of Aziraphale’s strong suits. For a being so staunchly and vocally pro-Ineffable-Plan, he had shown a remarkable lack of restraint, both in giving (flaming sword, anyone?) and in taking (because it takes a  _ special _ kind of idiot to risk discorporation-by-guillotine in the pursuit of some half-decent crêpes), over the past six millennia. And that was  _ with _ the constant threat of Big Brother watching him. 

Once he’d severed all contact with Heaven? All bets were off.

And it was delicious, at first. All the things he’d (barely) held back from—the books he wasn’t supposed to hoard, the food he wasn’t supposed to enjoy, the demon he wasn’t supposed to love—were suddenly off-off-limits! Without any Heavenly obligations to take care of, or demonic wiles to thwart, he could spend an entire month pouring over a particularly interesting volume of prophecy. He could perform miracle upon frivolous miracle without the threat of being reprimanded. Hell, he could take three meals a day at the Ritz with Crowley at his side, if he so chose, and often he did. He did all of these things, and more, on what was becoming a regular basis.

But...well, truth be told, it was all beginning to become a bit…

_ Boring. _

* * *

In the beginning, there was darkness. 

Until Lindsay’s alarm went off, that is. The beeping caused her to roll over, let out a few expletives, and turn on the light. Which in turn caused you to roll over and curse, rubbing your eyes, because  _ honestly, _ “Whose idea was it to have us wake up at two in the morning on our day off?”

“Seven, (Y/N). Seven thirty.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to my circadian rhythm,” you grumbled, pulling the thin hostel sheet back over your head and snuggling down into your pillow. “I’m going back to bed.”

“No, you’re fucking  _ not. _ ” You very nearly let out a hiss as your covers were yanked off you, presumably to the floor. “We did not spend seven hours sleeping on a stupid plane just for you to sleep the day away in London.”

“You were able to sleep on that thing?”

You could practically hear the eye roll that preceded her next statement. “If you really want, you can sleep through the guided tour tomorrow.” She flipped on the main ceiling lamp, and a ball of fabric slapped you in the face before she continued, “But  _ today _ , you are getting your ass down from that bunk bed so we can wander around without a chaperone breathing down our necks.”

It took a few blinks and nose scrunches before you could make out that the wad of fabric she’d hurled at you was, in fact, an outfit she must have grabbed at random from your suitcase. “Mmph, I’m  _ nauseous _ . I need more sleep.”

“Sleep later. Adventure now,” she called over her shoulder as she headed out the room, presumably to the bathroom down the hall. 

You sighed. If she came back and you still weren’t up, there was a solid chance she’d scramble up the ladder and drag you down herself. That’s what happened when you were friends with someone since preschool—a certain familiarity that could come across as vicious to a third-party observer. You liked it, though. Twenty years was long enough for you to have figured out that you weren’t  _ really _ good friends with someone if you couldn’t be a little mean to them once in a while.

Once you got your feet on the ground, ten minutes was all it took to dress, brush your teeth, sunscreen up, and triple check that you had your phone with you (even here, in a foreign country where you had no service and limited WiFi, the device was the most important thing you’d brought, because it had a convenient little pocket on the back of its case where you kept your debit card and IDs and such), before you linked arms with Lindsay and headed out.

* * *

The trip hadn’t been your idea. You hadn’t even had to pay for it—one of the perks of being on a scholarship. Tomorrow you’d dive headfirst into the schedule for the official study-abroad program you were here on, classes and guided tours and sightseeing; all the awful, tourist-y things you despised.

But today? Today was your first full day in the country, and the only one you had entirely at your disposal. Once you’d gotten some caffeine and a mimosa in your system, you couldn’t help but feel a bit grateful towards Lindsay for getting you up and out. You were grateful throughout all of brunch (thank Heavens for the lower drinking age), and for the first two hours of shopping (unlike you, Lindsay had actually done her homework on which clothing stores she was interested in visiting, so you mostly followed her around wherever struck her fancy). 

By hour three, you were a little clothed-out, and just the  _ tiniest _ bit over trying on things in tiny dressing rooms with unflattering lighting. 

By hour three-and-a-half, you needed some fresh air. And some alone time.

“Ready to check out? The line’s long but if you’re not done I can—”

You shook your head, hanging the few items you’d tried on back on the racks. “S’okay, I don’t think I’m getting anything here. Would you be okay if I wandered off on my own for a while?”

She furrowed her brow. “Do you know where the hostel is from here?” You nodded, and immediately her face relaxed. Slightly. “Okay. Promise you’ll be careful? And not go too far?”

You rolled your eyes. At a year older than you, Lindsay could get a bit overprotective from time to time. Luckily for both of you, you found it endearing, rather than annoying. Most of the time. “I’m a big girl, Linds. I’ll be fine.” You stuck out a pinky, faux-seriously.

She hooked her finger around yours, smiling. “Okay, okay.”

“See you later?”

She nodded. “There’s a used bookstore about a block down that way, I think. We passed it on our way here. Seemed like your kind of thing.” She shrugged. “Might be a good place to start.”


	2. Chapter 2

When you told Lindsay you could take care of yourself, you meant it. Sure, you didn’t feel the _ most _ secure wandering around a foreign city with no Internet connection; but there was something sort of wonderful about it, about the feeling of being lost. It made you feel more at home in your own skin.

Plus, it wasn’t as though you didn’t speak the language. 

Really, London wasn’t all that different from most major cities you’d seen back home. A little cleaner, maybe, but besides the black cabs and the whole left-side-of-the-road thing, you felt perfectly confident in your ability to—

“Watch out!”

_ My ability to nearly get myself killed in a hit-in-run, apparently. _

Some sharp-eyed street goer was quick enough to grab you by the arm and pull you back to the safety of the sidewalk as a large, old-looking black car barreled through—running over the exact spot where you would have been walking, if left to your own devices. 

“You alright, miss?”

The shock of it left you dumb for a moment, staring wordlessly at the car as it tore down the street. You caught a glimpse of red hair peeking over the front seat, as well as the first two letters of a license plate, before the driver hung a sharp left and was lost from sight.

“Miss?” You finally nodded, thanking your rescuer. Before he headed off, he was kind enough to confirm your directions to Lindsay’s bookstore recommendation. 

This time, you double—no, triple—checked the street in both directions before daring to cross.

* * *

One of the things Aziraphale liked best about his bookshop was how near-sentient it was. That’ll happen, you know, with old establishments, and particularly with old bookshops. Even more so with old bookshops where the owner is hellbent (heavenbent?) on never letting a single book leave the premises. The shop knew this, and had developed a helpful sensitivity to the thoughts of new patrons, alerting Aziraphale whenever he was in danger of actually making a sale.

So when the door opened _ again _ (today was an atypically busy day for his little shop, and he was beside himself trying to thwart customer after customer. Right now, he was trapped behind a bookshelf, in the middle of explaining to an angry little crone that no, this particular copy of Whithering Lows was _ not _available for purchase, and neither were any of the other copies), Aziraphale stiffened automatically. 

But a funny thing happened. The door swung open—

The windchimes rang softly—

And for a moment, the entire shop seemed to hold its breath.

Except, of course, for the crone. “Really, Mr. Fell,” she said, “if it’s a question of money, I can assure you—”

“Er.” She continued to prattle on, apparently oblivious to the fact that his attention had drifted elsewhere. “Excuse me for a moment.”

“But I need—”

“I’m so sorry, I just, er, need to check on something in the back.” He started off in the direction of the front counter, a bit dazed. “In the front, I mean, the front.” 

Something must have been wrong. Typically, the shop supported him by responding to overenthusiastic patrons with unpleasant smells, sudden drafts, and the like (the sudden drop in temperature when the Whithering Lows lady entered the shop had been enough to make him shiver, even beneath the heavy three-piece suit).

Currently, though, the air in the front room was a perfect seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit without a draft in sight; any intake of breath brought with it the scent of lavender; and as he rounded the corner, passed the rows of shelves, and made his way to the entrance, Aziraphale saw that the windows were letting in an unusual amount of (typically non-existent) London sunlight, concentrated around the girl who’d just walked in.

The girl in question seemed entirely unaware of the effect she was having on the shop (understandable, since she had, in fact, _ just _ walked in). She didn’t move at all. She stood there, a few feet in front of the door, with her face tilted up towards the light, open and honest and in awe of the walls, the furnishings, the endless rows upon rows of shelves. Aziraphale stood equally still, trying not to startle her. 

It didn’t work. She looked down and jumped a bit, as though she had been caught zoning out in class by a particularly strict teacher. A pretty blush rose up in her cheeks as she cleared her throat. “Hi! Sorry. Hello.”

“Hello.” He caught himself just a second too late, plastering a pleasant, unruffled expression over his own surprise. “Could I help you with anything?”

She shook her head with an apologetic half-smile. “I was, um, I was just planning to look around a bit. If that’s okay.” A glance down on his part showed him trembling hands, pigeon-toed feet. He felt an overwhelming urge to step forward and clasp one nervous hand in his own, run a thumb over where the pulse flickered in her wrist. Close the space between them. Or place a hand on her cheek and miracle her a moment of calm. 

But he got the sense that, if he did that, she might shift from being merely shy to sprinting out the door. That wouldn’t do. He needed her to stay at least long enough for Crowley to se. He opted, instead, for what he _ hoped _ was a welcoming grin (he had grown so accustomed, after all, to only ever giving customers that one strained smile, and any change took a moment to grow used to) and a respectful nod. “Of course.”

* * *

You’d always had an unfortunate habit of falling a little bit in love with everyone you see. 

Not quite _ everyone _, but the occasional stranger, at least. And if not in love, than in...like. A crush, maybe, although even that seemed like too strong a word. It was just an appreciation, really, a noticing of the little things. That girl’s haircut, or the dimples on that guy at the table next to you. 

So it wasn’t entirely surprising when you looked up, and you saw this man with his blue eyes and his dimples and his dandelion curls, and you found yourself immediately, absolutely _ smitten. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello loves,
> 
> this is SO unproofread!! but hey, it’s 2020 and cringe culture is dead, so i’m giving myself permission to write and post crazy self-indulgent fics to my heart’s content. 
> 
> also, i REALLY fuck with the idea of aziraphale’s bookshop being somewhat sentient. i hope it finds its way into better fics than this one.
> 
> bisous,  
bothareinfinite

**Author's Note:**

> Hello readers,
> 
> Welcome to what I'm hoping will be my first extended GO fic! Let me know if you're intrigued/if there's anything you'd like to see going forward!


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